Near Defenestration

WHEN OUR STORY BEGINS Stephanie is in the process of pouring a whole can of beer down the back of Turner’s shirt. The young gentleman has been somewhat impolitic in a recent invitation extended to the lady (“Hey, slut! Come funnel a beer with me!”), and her reaction is, admittedly, merited. In fact, she has been hoping to pour her beer over the top of his head, an act that would be equally merited. This is, alas, impossible, since, given his height (six feet five inches, even) and hers (five feet four and one half inches), such an act would violate the laws of physics. For which reason she has settled for his back. Her concession, however, goes unnoticed by Turner. He is pissed.

Turning, Turner tips his own glass deliberately down the front of Stephanie’s blouse. “Goddamn slut,” he exclaims. “You better watch yourself.” Yet the fact of the matter is that Stephanie, being a self-respecting, strong, and independent woman, is watching herself. For which reason, likely, she wipes the beer off her chin and retorts, “What did you just call me?” Turner, however, misses the cue for his apology entirely, and opts instead for an apologia: “I called you a slut, because you look like a slut, Slut.”

Now both are pissed. Stephanie rejects Turner’s tautology at once, and resolves to assert her (relative) sexual purity by striking him repeatedly. Yet with our omniscient, sober perspective on the situation, we may confidently observe the rashness of her decision. He is, after all, an enormous human being. As he notices her tiny arms flailing against his chest, the giant grabs her by the waist, hoists her up and over his shoulder, and attempts to throw her out of the open first floor window. Fortunately for Stephanie, he misses his mark. Together they crash upon the beer-soaked floor.

A Neighborhood Affair

Hello?

Hi, this is Janice. Is Larry around?

No, no he’s out right now. Can I take a message for you?

Sure! If you could just let him know that Janice was wondering if he could help her take her top off, I’d really appreciate it.

Sounds goo- Wait, I’m sorry, what?

If you could just let him know that I was hoping he could help me take my top off.

I’m sorry, you are aware who you are talking to, right?

Yes, of course. This is Larry’s wife. Your name is Sarah, yes?

Yes, that’s me.

Is there a problem?

Well I just think it’s a little unusual that you want my husband to help you take your top off.

You see, the thing is, I’ve had it on all winter, and I figure it’s about time. You know I just can’t do it by myself.

What? Of course you can. I take my top off by myself every day.

You do? Then you’re a stronger woman than I am.

Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. Why do you want my husband to take your top off?

Well, like I said, it’s getting warmer now and I’m looking for a change. There’s just something so wonderful about that rush, you see.

The rush?

Oh you know, that feeling you get when your top is off. The wind on your face, the sun in your hair, great music playing on the radio. There’s nothing else quite like it. You don’t get that when you’re driving yours?

Driving? I’m not sure I follow you.

Driving your Jeep Wrangler with the top off. Like I said, I’m not strong enough to take mine off on my own, and I just thought since he has a Jeep as well your husband might be able to help. What on earth did you think we were talking about?

I just thought… never mind. I’ll let Larry know you called.

Thanks, Sarah.

No problem, Janice.

Oh, and Sarah, before I go: do you know if your son would want to help me shave my back?

What's the matter, Mr. Peebles?

When I was very young my greatest fear was to be bullied. I was, of course, and regularly – let just one child discover that you are insecure about being made fun of, and there goes any hope you have of making it through middle school without a constant stream of pushes, slights, and shunning. For the most part, I was able to cope with this hostile environment by retreating into myself; I read a lot, I talked (and smiled) little, in effect, I became an introvert. But what I was never able to overcome was the sheer humiliation of the nickname I was given: Mr. Peebles.

“Miss-ter Pee-bullz,” they would say. “Whassa matter, Miss-ter Pee-bullz?” These words, spoken so derisively, were a source of great shame to my eight-year-old psyche. I knew enough to know that they were intended as an insult, that it was hardly a good thing to be a Peebles. But I didn’t know what they meant, and that was worse by far than any other insult I had known. I knew what a sissy was, and what crybaby meant – these were aspects of myself that, while not flattering, I had at least accepted. But what did it mean to be a Mr. Peebles? “Miss-ter Peebullz,” they would say. “Whassa matter, Miss-ter Pee-bullz?” At this, I burst into tears.

After several weeks of this, I finally recognized that things would only continue if I did not somehow stand up for myself. It was lunchtime, and Ryan Goff, the class bully, came up to me, grinning and eager to revel in my insecurities. “Well look who it is,” he began. “Miss-ter –“

“I kissed your mom,” I blurted out. “And she liked it.” He began to cry.

McLuhan meets MTV

What’s up MTV rockers! Tonight it’s like totally my pleasure to invite on to the set long-time media theorist and sex-bomb professor Marshall McLuhan. Marshall McLuhan everybody.

Shitty pop music, canned applause.

Well thank you Jessica. It’s a, it’s a, hrm, pleasure to be joining you.

It’s honestly great having you here Mr. McLuhan. You can call me J-town, if you want. So how’s it, you know, going?

Well honestly I must admit that being here is, ahem, something of a shock.

Oh really? What’s up?

Well for starters, I’ve been dead for thirty years. Thirty years, um, this week actually.

No way! Can you believe that, rockers?

Yes, yes it’s, hrm, true. Um, I’m not actually… not actually sure how I ended up here. Say Jessica, do you know where I might locate a phone booth?

Hah you’re a funny one, Mr. McCluhan. Phone booth, right. Want to use my cell? The medium is the message and all that, you know.

I... I see.

Jessica hands him her iPhone. McLuhan holds the device in his hand confusedly, looking for buttons. After staring at it for a moment, he gives up and sets it down on the table in front of him.

Ok… So Mr. McLuhan, what are your, um, like first impressions of the twenty-first century?

Now this will take quite a while to explain but when I was theorizing about this back in the seventies I did think, I did think that it would be much closer to a global village than what I’ve been able to glean so far. Chatting casually, spontaneously without a script and paying attention to what is being said only goes so far, you see.

Huh? Global village? What’s, like, that?

The global village is like the way the American south felt about the Yankee north, as it were. It is a place of very arduous interfaces.

Oh for sure, Marshall. That’s like totally cool.

Jessica, clearly you know nothing of my work. You know, I think I would prefer if um, if you called me by my proper name.

Whoops! My bad, Mr. MacLowen. Sorry about that… Um, well it seems that we’ve just about run out of time! A fog horn sounds offstage. Again, thanks for joining all us rockers. This is MTV’s Jessica “J-town” Mascaroni, reporting, like, live from MTV Studios.

More canned applause, even shittier pop music.

Oh thank goodness. Can I please go now?

Sentence Sounds

Who forgets her underwear?
I don’t even know. Happens, I guess.
It’s not like socks. You can’t just forget to grab that on your way out the door.

Hey, just wanted to let you know I took care of everything.
You’re a boss.
Don’t even worry about it.

Do you have the book?
Shit. OK, I’ll be a little late.

No, I’m pretty sure I’m right, dude. Commons closes at nine.
No, you don’t even know.

Now look what you’ve made me do.
Oh my god I’m so sorry.
You’ll have to excuse my friend.

Do you see the way people are looking at you?
Yes, mommy.
Do you like the way that makes you feel?

You won’t do it.
Says who?
Says me.

Apparently someone came out with a clone of “Angry Birds” for Xbox Live. It’s called “Pissed Fish.”
Who did?
Some random mouthbreather.

How’d it go?
Whatever. I don’t want to talk about it.

I haven’t been here in forever.
Sup dude?
Been almost a week, maybe two.

Hey, slut, come funnel a beer with me.
What did you just call me?
I called you a slut because you look like a slut, slut.

Well, shit.
That was easy.

Well? What do you think?
Our grandparents worked their whole lives to get out of that shtetl, and you went back.

You know you want to.
You can’t be serious.
Now I may be wrong, but I think that sounds like a “Yes, Noah, I do.”

Mind if I join you?
Not at all.
So how’ve you been, buddy?

Yo what’s up Joe?
Good. You?
Not much.

Joyce

Did the process of divestiture continue?

Sensible of a benignant persistent ache in his footsoles he extended his foot to one side and observed the creases, protuberances and salient points caused by foot pressure in the course of walking repeatedly in several different directions, then, inclined, he disnoded the laceknots, unhooked and loosened the laces, took off each of his two boots for the second time, detached the partially moistened right sock through the fore part of which the nail of his great toe had again effracted, raised his right foot and, having unhooked a purple elastic sock suspender, took off his right sock, placed his unclothed right foot on the margin of the seat of his chair, picked at and gently lacerated the protruding part of the great toenail, raised the part lacerated to his nostrils and inhaled the odour of the quick, then, with satisfaction, threw away the lacerated unguinal fragment.

- Ulysses (Ithaca)

Naxos

That arch. A fading white, it stands out stark against the blue horizon. Savor it: it frames the sea. The sea, the sea! The sea, a pure blue capped with wonderful white crests, the sky a little lighter, few clouds to speak of, just a tuft here and there above the distant Parian peaks. Distance, then, a flattening of perspective, the browns of the closer mountains fading into blue. (A hazy blue, what Da Vinci once called atmospheric.) Waves slap against the spumy breakwater. This and the strong wind resonate. This is pure. Beautiful.

Feel the sand, and tufts of browning, dried-out grass, the dusty stone embankment. Gaze upon the once white, salted marble. The weathered, well-worked stones all scattered: little nubs of columns, blocks with carved out places for long-gone wooden lintels. An ancient earthquake sent the rest into the sea. Distorted columns, headstones rest just below the surface of the water by the shore.

Remember Ariadne? Here she, too, succumbed to crushing loneliness. Her clothes abandoned, she beat her breast in good Greek fashion and lamented her fate to the immenseness of the sea: perfide, deserto liquisti in litore, Theseu? The place is as empty now as it was then. Or almost: solitary tourists tramp about the ruins. They stand intentionally apart.

Embrace this alienation. Touch the weathered, sunbaked stones with dusty, sunburnt hands. Breathe, taste the salt in the wind. Savor it. Savor everything: the sea, the stones, that arch.

(Free theme that engages in some way with things)

Drinking Too Much

The following is an account of a friend’s Friday night, to the best of his memory:

- 1 shot of Jack Daniels in coffee after dinner
- 2 cups of coffee
- 2 Keystone Lights at Matt’s
- 1 Keystone at Fence Club
- 3 sips of mojito at Fence Club
- 1 Busch light at Fence Club
- 1 shot of vodka, poured onto arm after breaking window at Fence Club
- 1 Four Loko, purchased before the drink was banned, at Fence Club
- 2.5 Keystone over beer pong at Mike’s
- 1 hit off Tim’s pipe
- 3 Pabst Blue Ribbon over beer pong at Mike’s

This was a typical night out for him. In the unremitting clarity of his hangover, he seemed to regret his actions. He recognized that he probably should have ended his night early after putting his arm through a window. Yet in the moment, the thought didn’t even cross his mind. Instead, he poured vodka on the cuts and kept right on going. Why?

For many students at Yale, going out drinking is not just the way to celebrate a special occasion. It is the default way to spend our weekends. Drinking does, of course, have its appeal. Many a laugh has been brought on those telltale words: “I was soooo drunk last night.” But as a senior whose hangovers are only getting worse, I wonder sometimes whether it’s really worth it. The social pressure to imbibe is often unavoidable, yet I can’t help but feel that we’re all egging each other on without really wanting to ourselves.

We don’t just drink alcohol, either. It’s easy to forget, but caffeine is also a drug. So what’s the benefit? Can’t we just be happy with being ourselves, not ourselves in some chemically-induced state? In the course of three or four hours, my friend consumed the equivalent of fifteen beers and four cups of coffee. That just isn’t healthy. The strange part is, he laughed it off afterwards. Maybe this is normal, but should it be? I would like to think we still have the capacity to have fun sober. Increasingly, though, I don’t know.

How to Fold a Shirt

How to fold a shirt. The best way to fall in a river. Sharing a waffle. What “friends” means. Knowing it’s only a month. Talking to a sleeping person. Saying goodbye and thinking it’s forever. Crying even though you’re not twelve anymore. Going home.

Calling again. Things you can get away with in the middle of Central Park at noon. Ways to get to New York City every weekend. The first poem you ever wrote for someone. How to draw a butterfly. Writing letters worth reading. Sending them. Things being different. Things being special.

Sleeping together without sleeping together. Giving presents. Getting them. How to have nice things and not feel bad about it. Sleeping together. Saying I love you. Meaning it. Realizing it’s OK to leave your friends when there’s someone you’d rather be with.

Missing her. Texting every day. Calling sometimes. Learning to talk about nothing, just to hear that voice. Going to see her. What you can do under a coat on a train, but probably shouldn’t. Being naked sometimes. What it’s like not to be embarrassed. Meeting her friends. Leaving. Missing her again.

Going back. The right way to wear a tuxedo. Meeting her parents. Feeling old, but in a good way. Just feeling old. Things being the same. Worrying about it.

Things being different. Not meaning it anymore. Thinking about other people. Deciding to answer the phone. No longer wanting to. Going to see her. Saying goodbye and knowing it’s forever. Crying even though you’re not twelve anymore. Going home.

Giant Spoon

But for the fact that one of the screws holding up the giant decorative chrome spoon had come loose, today was a day just like any other in the Silliman dining hall. Chef Stu and his staff had been there since six thirty in the morning, and, as always, they were busy from the time they arrived, washing out last night’s pots and pans, sweeping the countertops, preparing breakfast. By eight, when the first bleary-eyed students began to wander in, everything was in its proper place: bagels waiting to be toasted, fresh cups of milk thirsting to be drunk, oatmeal ready to be poked at disinterestedly. A freshman forgot to spray down the waffle iron, and was obliged to scrape out the failure as best he could with a fork. Already patting together meatballs for lunchtime, Stu chatted animatedly with a student whom he had seen at last night’s hockey game. The team’s stick handling had never looked better. They had a good shot this year.

Then came lunch. Today’s long line curved around the servery and out into the open foyer. Little did they know what excitement they were about to witness. With the stomp of so many feet and the clatter of so many trays, the fateful screw was slowly working its way out of its socket. Suddenly, it stripped its hole entirely and hit Stu on the shoulder as if in slow motion. Looking up in surprise, Stu only just saw out of the corner of his eye as the giant spoon began to swing towards him perilously. He barely had time to move out of the way before the spoon came hurtling down into the meatball marinara, splattering the entire line of hungry students in its range.

(Narrate an incident with an object at the beginning that assumes a critical function by the end)

Common Room Table

The tabletop used to be black. It looks like wood but it is probably plastic because when Dan dropped a live coal on it, it smelled funny and was hollow inside. Recently, it seems that Cooper has been using this hole to keep his toothpicks in. Used toothpicks. This morning, of course, the table was clean. Now look: an empty book of matches, a diet Mountain Dew can, the green case for a missing Xbox disc. Typical. The box of Sweet Melon hookah tobacco is surely empty, that black Xbox controller doesn’t even work, and this light green plastic bag, more likely than not, has drugs inside. What were they doing with a rubber hose? Why are the Rock Band drumsticks out at this hour? One would think they could have at least settled on something, but no: the table is as cluttered as their heads.

So what if that white coffee mug was “borrowed” from the dining hall? You wanted to use it later, and now it’s half full with someone else’s phlegm. It’s no use finding out whose, since there’s no way to clean it out anyways: the bottle of liquid dish soap you just bought has tipped over and is dripping on to the floor. Why? A working hypothesis – Carl sometimes likes to blow bubbles when he’s high. And, while we’re playing detective, it’s worth pointing out that the hookah appears to be missing its hose. Hence the rubber substitute. Is that a battery powered light bulb? Is that a booger? Those idiots. Nothing left to do except turn on the TV and ignore it. Damn! There is soap on the remote.

(This theme is a still life)

Conrad

Originally he came from a parsonage. Many commanders of fine merchant-ships come from these abodes of piety and peace. Jim's father possessed such certain knowledge of the Unknowable as made for the righteousness of people in cottages without disturbing the ease of mind of those whom an unerring Providence enables to live in mansions. The little church on a hill had the mossy greyness of a rock seen through a ragged screen of leaves. It had stood there for centuries, but the trees around probably remembered the laying of the first stone. Below, the red front of the rectory gleamed with a warm tint in the midst of grass-plots, flower-beds, and fir-trees, with an orchard at the back, a paved stable-yard to the left, and the sloping glass of greenhouses tacked along a wall of bricks. The living had belonged to the family for generations; but Jim was one of five sons, and when after a course of light holiday literature his vocation for the sea had declared itself, he was sent at once to a 'training-ship for officers of the mercantile marine.'

-Lord Jim

New Years

Between the yelling and all the beer you just drank, you can hardly hear yourself think. Katharine was giving you eyes all night, and you know it’s a bad idea but little by little it’s seeming like less of one. Even if she’s a little obsessive she’s at least cute and tonight that might be good enough. Has she been drinking too? You don’t know but you know you have and you spilled it all over the big green tractor in the basement but cleaned it up with paper towel so it’s probably OK. Winning is hard sometimes. Someone is writing something on your stomach with a Sharpie but even if you could see you probably wouldn’t be able to read anything right now. You assume it’s a penis and try smudging it out with your hand. Doesn't work. Is someone making bacon? You’re not sure but you’d like some if they are.

She hands you a bottle of champagne asks you if you can open it for her and her hand feels warm against your chest. Katie is also here and it’s her house and she’d probably not like it if. Funny how they have the same name. Different people though and they have very different aims in mind which in your state you’re having trouble sorting out. You see her sitting at that secondhand piano just watching you and you’re not sure how you can without upsetting her. But Katharine is very close now and your brain is rolling around the inside of your head like a yolk and you’re the egg. The warmth you feel makes sense, it is tangible and she decides you need to be put to bed and pulls you towards the staircase. You look to see if Katie sees you but by the time you turn she’s gone.

(Use the first or third theme of this week as the setting for an incident. How does the scene affect what happens?)

Boxford

Just off of I-95 near the New Hampshire border, a medium-sized sign reads, “Boxford Village.“ Follow the road, and you will quickly come to the center of town – a Protestant church, the post office, a library, and the general store. Except for Benson’s ice cream stand, which is open between Memorial Day and the end of summer, this is the only store in town. On the other side of a grassy patch by the library, a large yellow saltbox from before the Revolution serves as the headquarters for the Boxford Historical Society. What they preserve there I can only guess at.

I wish I knew. I have lived in Boxford my whole life, and I’m still trying to figure out what that should mean for me. Apart from my family, I don’t know anyone in the town – prep school swept me away from whatever friendships I had made there as a kid, and I have never made much of an effort to get to know it. When I am home, I tend to spend most of my time visiting my friends in their town, Andover, where we went to school together, or farther south, in Boston. When I am not eating or sleeping, I am usually on my way out the door.

This leaves me free, I think, to wonder. Boxford: the name is somehow agrarian. It has a certain primness to it, the unapologetic pride of Jeffersonian democracy. Boxford. Take away the “b”, and you’ve got the famous university. Leave it in, and then what? The x makes you stop in the middle, think for a second. Boxford. If there is a ford somewhere in the town – and I am not sure that there is – what makes it boxy? What does it mean to be from a place and not to know it?

(Start with a place name)

Ariadne

The first thing anyone ever sees upon arriving in Naxos is a temple to Apollo. Make your way through the confused crowd of tourists and leave your bag with one of the eager hoteliers who greet you as you disembark, and you will find yourself on the small promontory where it lies. An earthquake sent most of the building into the sea long ago. Distorted columns, headstones, and lintels rest just below the surface of the water all along the beach. All that’s left is single marble arch. A fading white, it stands out stark against the blue horizon.

It is here that, according to the myth, Ariadne was abandoned by Theseus while she slept. Realizing her plight, the poor girl was driven insane. Her clothes abandoned to the sea, she beat her breast in good Greek fashion and lamented her fate to the immenseness of the sea: perfide, deserto liquisti in litore, Theseu? The place is as empty now as it was then.

Standing here, one feels the same crushing sense of loneliness once felt by Ariadne. All around, the rolling waves stretch out to infinity: a tenuous breakwater is all that connects this site to the rest of the island. The breakers beat hard against it with a slap that reminds of you of the erosion that is inevitably happening. The sheer improbability of the place has a spiritual effect; the forces of nature overwhelm your senses. Although it is difficult to explain the motivation exactly, intuitively you understand why the Greeks chose here to build their temple.

(Describe a sacred place. It need not be, although it can be, a place designated as sacred by custom and purpose, and you may not view it as sacred yourself.)

Looking Out

Outside, white. Large flakes rush down from somewhere, softly but with a purpose. The snow is sinister today, no purity or innocence to speak of. The air cold, especially so with the biting gusts that find the small opening at the neck of the coat, burying themselves inside like so many icicles. This blanket is not cashmere, but a harsher wool, itching and working its way under the skin.

Men trudge about the street, bundled into sweaters, jackets, hats. This one’s leather gloves are useless against the damp, soaked through and frozen into withered talons. His hands are red and raw from his wasted efforts with the shovel, better left for morning. That one braces himself against the storm, the collar up on his jacket, slogging his way. He did not expect the storm. Up the street, a dog laden with ice scratches at a door, whining its plea in vain. The whistle and the white consume the scene; both take on new meaning. The whistle is the terror and the push, the singer and the song, futility. The white is nothing and nothing again. The white is all.

Krauss watches from the window as a tumult of snow falls off the roof. The drawn-back curtains, a handsome red and gold tartan, are reflected in her coffee cup. She takes comfort in the fire in the fireplace. A quiet feline form rests beside her, curled up in an armchair. On the radio, the announcer interrupts her sonata to inform her of what she already knows. All those who are not performing essential services should remain at home. The state’s primary concerns are that all citizens are safe and that unnecessary travel is kept to a minimum. Krauss smiles at her relative good fortune, and sets about making another pot of coffee.

(Adopt a roving point of view, like the one Dickens creates with his fog, and make a moving pictue. You will need to decide how to establish the point of view. What does moving allow you to see that standing still doesn't? What does it keep you from seeing?)

Shout

By the time Shout by the Isley Brothers comes on, no one is going to remember much. Between the Goodwill piano and the long wooden table, the floor is wet with champagne drunk too early, or perhaps not, given the general state of things at the moment. Already, there has been talk of naked tobogganing, this met with general enthusiasm and the removal of t-shirts. At the stove, someone is frying bacon. One hardly hears the sizzling fat over the booming bass and the airbrushed choruses. Shouts, bodies overwhelm the room. More space fills: the downstairs crowd comes up to join the others. The first among them bears unexpected news: the Viet Cong have lost to the South in civil war. This draws an easy laugh and an awkward hug that might have had less vim some hours ago.

But in another room a girl with red eyes and a thick-wrapped sweater sits cross-legged on the bed. The closed door does not dampen sound enough, and the saccharine throbbing outside only adds to her melancholy. Now was not the right time to talk; tonight was supposed to be different. Just good things. Good friends and good cheer and memories. She had determined to push it from her memory. Until tomorrow. Couldn’t help herself, though. Had to know. Five minutes ago she was happy, and now... It isn’t right.

“I’m sorry.”

Sitting in the chair, he looks at her looking at him. Her damp face betrays the same emotion he conceals.

(Set a scene in which something will happen---or in which something has happened (or, just as likely, both). But don't say what has happened or what will: allow that to be implied as part of the scene you evoke.)